


Beerly Beloved

by grapehyasynth



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, microbrewery au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-06-08 17:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6866188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>**title courtesy of notapepper!!**</p><p>Jemma Simmons runs a microbrewery that's struggling. Leo Fitz is the engineer she hires to help her streamline the production process. :))))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this idea on Tumblr a while back and while I think there are other writers who could do it more justice, I'm trying it? 
> 
>  
> 
> Shoutout to jemscarter for beta magic on this chapter!

“Uh, excuse me, I’m looking for a Dr. Simmons? I was told I could find him somewhere back here.” 

Jemma smiles and finishes reviewing the last page of the document on her desk without looking up. The first few dozen times people had made this mistake she’d been rather peeved, but now she could enjoy the reactions of those foolish enough to presume. 

“I suppose you think I’m the secretary, then? And it’s Dr. _Dr._ Simmons, by the way.” 

“Oh, I was expecting --” 

“A fifty-year old man? Sorry to disappoint.” 

“I’m not disappointed-- not that I’m _excited_ \-- I, er--” 

Jemma sets down her pen and appraises the young man in the doorway. He’s an odd mishmash of young and old, really, with a face just dusted with stubble and densely curly blonde hair and a sweater that _actually_ has patches on the elbows. Not that she has any room to be judging anyone for their age, after the number of people who dismissed her for hers. 

“And you are--?” 

“Fitz. Leopold Fitz. Doctor as well.” 

“Just the one then?” 

He opens his mouth to protest but she smiles and stands, crossing the room to shake his hand. 

“I’ll ignore your lack of credentials considering you come so highly recommended. Please, have a seat.” 

He perches on the edge of the armchair across the desk from her, holding his messenger bag on his lap. His eyes flit over the diplomas, posters, diplomas, and tomes which cover Jemma’s walls and bookshelves, and she takes the opportunity to examine him further. He has a pen stuck behind his ear, cap off like he’s forgotten mid-use what he meant to write, and his hands are smudged with grease of some sort. She takes that as a good sign. 

He looks back at her and blushes as he sees her looking. (She, determinedly, does not blush.) 

“Mack didn’t mention you were a girl,” he says abruptly. “Or English.” 

“Will that be a problem?” she asks coolly. 

“No, no, I suppose not,” he muses seriously. 

“Where are you from then, Leopold?” 

“It’s just Fitz. And Glasgow.” There’s an awkward silence before he seems to remember himself and asks quickly, “You?” 

“Sheffield, born and raised.” 

“I’d hardly expect a Sheffield girl to be in Boston running a microbrewery.” 

“Known many Sheffield girls, have you? And it’s a bit of a tale, and certainly not one I recount before I’ve had at _least_ two beers.” 

She means it to be offhand, and it’s true, but it comes out almost flirty and she scrunches her nose, about to backpedal, but he just nods, his eyes still traveling throughout the room. He’s a little gruff and distant, but she finds it makes her smile more than anything. For all the stereotypes about awkward engineers, there’s a distinct lack of social graces about Leopold Fitz that reminds her of home, maybe, or maybe it’s something specific to him.

“Well, now that we’ve the requisite inane chatter out of the way, shall we talk business?” She shifts forward in her seat to attempt to fully capture his attention. 

As expected, he is suddenly all focus and awareness. His fidgeting knee stills and he looks to her expectantly. 

“I don’t know how much Mack told you about the job--” 

“Almost nothing, as we’ve established--” 

“In that case, I’ll start from the top.” She rearranges the paperclips on her desk, taking a moment to collect her thoughts. She hasn’t even told Mack this, but she’s rather desperate and if Fitz turns down the position she will have to seriously consider abandoning the experiment altogether. It’s a vulnerability she doesn’t know how to leverage. 

“I started Shield Microbrew about a year and a half ago. I developed the original formula myself--” 

“Really? That’s fascinating,” Fitz cuts in with unmasked enthusiasm. 

Jemma, feeling rather pleased, waves the compliment aside but acknowledges, “One of my degrees is in -- well, it’s not a field most people have heard of but it has its roots in biochemistry so it wasn’t a large leap to make. The basics of brewing are quite simple, really, as evidenced by the increasing popularity of home-brewing. We’ve since refined our product considerably and experimented with unusual flavor additions, but from the outset our beer was well-received by critics and has consistently ranked among the highest-rated for taste, mouthfeel, and affordability. Have you tried any of our beers?” 

“Can’t say I have,” Fitz replies sheepishly, scratching behind one ear. 

“It’s hardly a condition of employment, though I do stand by the product and I hope you’ll sample some on the house. You’ll find it to be of the highest quality.” 

“Sorry, but I still don’t see where I come in.” 

“I was getting there!” Jemma says a little peevishly. “So, as I’ve described, there are no discernible issues with our product itself, and yet we’ve been struggling to remain afloat, let alone turn a profit. Boston’s very much a beer-loving city but with major distributors like Samuel Adams and Harpoon already established, not to mention a plethora of local breweries, it’s been quite a vexing challenge carving out any space for ourselves in the market.

“Which is what brings you here, Dr. Fitz,” she rushes as he makes to interrupt her once again. “As my formula is perfect--” 

“Is that a formal scientific assessment? Don’t you need some sort of peer review process or--” 

“--I think my _two_ PhDs should be more than sufficient as an endorsement--” 

“Quality not quantity,” he jabs back, then snaps his mouth shut as if wishing he could retract the barbed comment. 

Jemma maintains a stoic, even disapproving, expression, which is only appropriate as she is his prospective employer, but the brief clash gives her a bit of a thrill. In the male-dominated world she inhabits, she is typically greeted with one of two polar reactions: dismissed outright for being a young woman, barely older than most college students, or praised for her qualifications to the point where her actual skills or intelligence become irrelevant, so blinded are people by a fancy diploma. To actually meet a mind willing to challenge her without denying her right to be in the conversation in the first place is a welcome change. 

“Well, as I said, you’ll have to test our beers and develop your own assessment.” She raises her eyebrows with a slight smirk. “For science, of course. In the meantime, I’d like to engage your services to review our existing technology and the actual, physical process of brewing. Most of my network comes from the biochem corner of the scientific professions so that is where the strengths of our employees lay. With your assistance we could ideally streamline the process and gain a bit of an edge over our competitors.”

Fitz taps his lips with two fingers and squints slightly, the pure picture of pondering. “Sounds simple enough.” 

“I could understand how it might seem _below_ you--” 

“That’s not what I meant, Simmons,” he replies sharply, brow furrowed. 

She thinks about challenging the sudden familiarity of his address but knows it comes from distractedness, not lack of respect. 

“Shall I give you the tour?” she asks, standing, unwilling to let this partnership grow tense before it’s begun. “Give you a sense of the task awaiting you before you sign on?” 

“Alright then,” he replies, rolling his sleeves up as if about to dive into something messy. She hides a grin as she passes him.

He follows her through the employee access door into the main section of the brewery. The machines are operating, including the mill, so she has to shout a bit as she points out the different steps of the process and waves to the workers tending the boiling, lautering, fermenting, and filtering tanks. 

Fitz gets as close to the machines as he can, and in surveying the equipment he seems to lose some of the anxiousness which trapped him in her office, presenting Jemma with an entirely new side of him. She turns from time to time to find him right at her elbow, with no apparent discomfort at their lack of personal space. He doesn’t step back, though, but rather touches her lightly on the shoulder or elbow to direct her attention to a specific tank or hose or vent and query about its origins and purpose. Jemma had been intimately involved in every step of the design and purchase for the machines and is able to answer every question, barely finishing one sentence before he’s ploughed on to a new thought. 

They finish in the showroom, which offers a glass panel through which they watch the beer -- today, a light wheat lager with citrus undertones and a flowery finish in time for summer -- bottled and labeled. 

“You set all this up?” Fitz asks, eyes scanning the conveyer belts. 

“Mack gave me some tips, but yes, in essence.” 

He nods slowly and turns to face her, pushing his hands into his trousers pockets. “I’ve never worked with this kind of technology before--” 

“But as you said, it’s merely an application of similar principles to a simpler context, isn’t it?” She tries not to sound too desperate.

He sucks his upper lip in between his teeth in what she already recognizes as one of his myriad tics of thinking -- thinking about the right words, laboring through a decision, considering several options. At last he nods. “Honestly, I doubt it’ll take me more than a week to get the lay of the land and make my recommendations.” 

“Oh? Well, that’s...good news.” It should be -- it means she will only have to pay him for that long and they’ll be able to start renovations and updates much sooner, hopefully leading them towards improved profits -- so why does she feel so disappointed? “Can you start Monday?” 

“I’ll have to check my, erm, schedule,” he lies, blatantly, “but that should work.” 

“Congratulations, Dr. Fitz, you are Shield Brew’s newest consultant.” She shakes his hand firmly and beams at him, unable to contain her relief and excitement.

 

On his first day, Fitz arrives just after nine and leaves promptly at five, as stipulated in his contract. If he takes a lunch break, Jemma doesn’t notice. She’d barely have known he was there at all if the foreman hadn’t come in at the end of the day to complain that Fitz was getting in the way and would surely burn himself on something if he weren’t more careful. 

So the next morning Jemma lingers on the edge of the factory floor, perched on the railing at the bottom of the ramp, from which she can see everything that goes on. Mike was right: Fitz is a bit careless and a bit clueless, and he’s definitely bumped his head on the steel containers at least three times, but when he passes near her she sees that he has pages and pages of notes and she’s loath to tell him to do anything that might affect his productivity. 

Besides, when he sees her he nearly trips over the large water hose and blushes furiously as he darts away from her, and she snorts in barely stifled laughter. 

It surprises her even more, then, when she is working late in her office as usual, hours after everyone has gone home -- or so she thought -- and he knocks on her door, brandishing a stack of papers and a plastic bag from the Chinese restaurant around the corner. 

“I was finishing up some notes in the lunchroom and saw that your light was still on, thought you might want some company.” 

“Oh, Fitz, you should’ve gone home hours ago! Couldn’t it have waited til tomorrow?” 

He hesitates halfway across her office and turns slightly away, then slightly back, vacillating uncertainly. “So you don’t want the fried noodles?” 

She purses her lips in a facsimile of an indulgent smile and sets down her pen, motioning for him to come closer. “Well, since you’re here already....” 

He tears the styrofoam container in half, separating the lid so he can spoon half of the food onto it and slide the rest to her, complete with an extra fork from the lunchroom. She watches him pour soy sauce liberally -- and very unhealthily-- onto his noodles before starting in on her own. 

“This is quite a treat, actually -- I’ve been eating my own sad casserole for three days now. How much do I owe you?” 

“I’ll write it off as a business dinner,” Fitz says around a mouthful, waving his fork at her. 

“Americans and their taxes, right?” 

He grins broadly at her in assent and she finds she’s not even bothered by the fleck of something green stuck between his two front teeth. 

“It’s commendable, by the way,” he says after a swallow. “You staying so late every night. Leading by example.” 

“Some example,” she scoffs. “I always encourage my employees to take care of themselves and have a life outside of work, and yet somehow I can’t do the same for myself. If I could just get this company in order--” She rubs at the tension in her temple. 

“No family, then? No hobbies? Boyfriend -- girlfriend?” 

“None of the above, I’m afraid,” she sighs into her food, putting on a practiced expression of comfortable resignation. “I love this work, I really do, but it’s my life, and it leaves little room for much else. Bit isolating, but--” She shrugs. 

He nods and doesn’t push the topic any further, which is a comforting change from most people she knows -- but at the same time, with Fitz, who is always so hesitant, she finds herself wishing he would. 

Jemma pushes her dish aside and scoots forward, brushing against his hand to pull his notes out from under his styrofoam make-shift plate. “What have you been working on, then?” He looks suddenly quite terrified, of a sudden, and she lets the pages riffle against her fingertips. “Unless you’d rather I not see?” 

“It’s not that,” he says carefully, his free hand squeezing the back of his neck anxiously. “It’s not finished, but-- Um, go ahead then.” 

She tugs the stack towards her and begins poring through the notes, her finger hovering above the page. She studiously ignores his gaze, burning into the top of her head, until she flips to a page entirely of schematics. 

“Oh, Fitz, these are beautiful!” Jemma looks up at him, a hand over her mouth. He shrugs noncommittally, averting his eyes, and she presses on, “Honestly. I’m thinking we’ve wasted your talents -- you should be designing our labels or our logo or--” 

“I like art, but I’d never want to do it for a living,” he mumbles, wiping at the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. “It’s effortless, really, and engineering at least is a challenge. Well,” he amends, “not a challenge, per se, as I’ve never encountered a problem I couldn’t solve, but at least it makes me use my brain a bit.” 

“That’s the most _Fitz_ thing I’ve heard you say,” she teases, pleased by the blush her comment elicits. “But truly, Fitz, these are gorgeous. I’m beyond impressed.” 

At first he watches her silently but with a tiny smile as she gushes over his designs, but when she reaches the more technical parts he cuts in on occasion, filling in the gaps of her comprehension, leaning across the desk so their foreheads are just inches apart and she has to readjust the lamp to illuminate the page. It doesn’t feel condescending or like he’s correcting her, though, not with the excitement in his voice. 

“There are actually a few components I don’t fully understand,” he admits when they’ve finished. “Places where the engineering runs more into the chemistry of the process-- I thought maybe--”

“--I might be able to help with that? Together I imagine we’d--”

“--make short work of it, yeah.” 

She realizes for the first time how close they are and slides back into her chair, spinning it slightly as she regards him. “I have a few meetings tomorrow but if you don’t mind staying after again, we could discuss them over tacos?” 

“Same time, same place?” he asks, somewhat nervously. 

For the next two nights, they fall easily into a rhythm. During the day they barely interact, forced as they are to deal with different segments of the brewery, but by 5:30 Fitz finds his way to her office with the latest food delivery and spreads his notes across Jemma’s desk, which she’s cleaned up ahead of time to allow them room to work. By the end of Thursday evening Fitz’s chair has migrated around the desk next to Jemma’s. 

He is, quite simply, the most interesting person she’s ever met, and the way they bounce ideas off of each other and clash briefly only to realize they’re arguing for the same side and gushing over the brilliance they’ve accidentally stumbled upon feels as if they’ve been cultivating this partnership forever. 

Which must be why Jemma spends all of Friday with her stomach in knots and her concentration entirely shot. She almost breathes a sigh of relief when he finally shows up, after the brewery has been officially shut down for the weekend, with a manila folder. 

He’s wearing a dark blue tie, which strikes her as odd, however much it complements his eyes, and he notices her frowning at it. “I didn’t have a Powerpoint or anything, but I thought I could put in at least a little effort.” 

“Why start now?” she jokes. 

He tilts his head at her and pouts slightly. It’s not an expression which should send flutters through her stomach but for some reason it does and she pushes away from her desk, rolling her eyes to cover her reaction. 

“Actually, I thought we might finally get you those samples. You can debrief me while we drink.” 

“Isn’t it generally considered bad practice to mix business and pleasure?” he calls as he hurries after her down the hallway to the tasting room. 

“Beer _is_ my business, Fitz,” she reminds him, spinning to walk backwards and raise her eyebrows at him. “There’s no conflict of interest I can see.” 

The tasting room, decorated like a beer hall from Old Europe, holds a few long, banquet-style wooden tables. Jemma makes her way straight to the bar and begins filling two glasses with Shield Brew Original. 

Fitz pulls a stool up to the bar and squeezes onto it, propping his elbows on top of his stack of paper to watch her. She indulges her long-held dream of being a fiery, alluring bartender for a moment before sliding him a glass and walking back around the bar, kneeling on a stool next to him, and climbing up to sit on top of the bar, letting her heels knock gently against the wood of the bar. 

“To the best beer in Boston,” Jemma offers as a toast, raising her glass to Fitz. 

“To a productive partnership,” he adds, clinking her glass. 

She grins and takes a sip, watching him over the rim of her glass as he tries her creation for the first time. His face is infuriatingly inscrutable, which she’s certain it’s never been before. He swishes the beer and squints one eye, considering. 

“Alright, that’s quite enough of a dramatic pause,” she tuts finally, grabbing his wrist to push it down to the bar so that it rests just beside her thigh. “What do you think?” 

“That’s a damn good beer, Simmons,” he admits begrudgingly. “I confess to being impressed.” 

“You’re not just saying that because I pay you?” she asks worriedly. 

“Definitely not,” he snorts. “I’m Scottish, not English.” 

“Settle down, you,” she scolds, releasing his wrist to cuff him gently on the shoulder. He rocks back dramatically, groaning in fake agony. 

“I compliment your beer and this is the thanks I get?” He shakes his head, taking a long gulp from his glass so that it was almost finished. “I’m hurt, Simmons.” 

“Please, Fitz, enough of this Simmons nonsense. Call me Jemma.”

“As long as you never call me Leo.” 

“I’m guessing there’s a story there?” 

“And I don’t tell it unless I’m at least _four_ beers in.” 

“Judging by your current color I’m guessing you don’t do much talking four beers in.” She brushes his already-ruddy cheek lightly with one knuckle, with a forwardness she wouldn’t have expected from herself if he hadn’t proven himself to be quite comfortable with minimal physical boundaries over the last week. “I’ve built up quite a tolerance over the last year and a half, I’m afraid you’ll have a bit of trouble keeping up.”

“In that case, I’d best present my findings before we go any farther,” he says, clearing his throat and looking away from her. He empties his glass nonetheless and sets it down. Jemma grabs it immediately and leans over to fill it with one of their darker ales as he wedges his papers out from where she’s just barely sitting on them. (She doesn’t intend to make it easier for him.) 

He lays out a few of the top pages and looks at them for a long moment, then sighs and gathers them together. 

“Honestly, Simm-- Jemma, my main conclusion was that you’re doing everything right already.” He laces his fingers together and looks up at her apologetically with a shrug. “I know you want to believe there’s something you’ve missed but you were quite thorough when you set this up. There’s not a thing you could change that would increase the efficiency of your production process.” 

Jemma groans, setting her glass down and dropping her face into her hands. “I knew it, we’re doomed --” 

“Hey,” Fitz says hurriedly, jostling her knee with one hand. “You didn’t think I’d charge you for a week’s worth of work just for that, did you? Your process is perfect but I still have some suggestions.” 

She props her chin in her palms so that her fingers cover her nose and she peeks at him over the fingertips. 

“As I see it, there are two routes you could take. They’re not mutually exclusive, either. First, your existing equipment is top of the line, but some breweries are choosing to green their production -- conserving water, capturing heat lost during the process, things like that. It would be a significant capital investment but it would not only pay out in the long-term but it’s a great advertisement tool. Some people specifically pursue products for their sustainability.” 

Jemma isn’t fond of the idea of expending more money at this point, money they barely have, but she’s feeling able to breath again and she lowers her hands to her lap, nodding slowly. “And the second route?” 

“You’ve focused so far on the product, the beer itself. But you have to remember that any product consumption is also an _experience_. You’ll never be able to build the connotations of a Sam Adams, which has so much historical resonance, or a Budweiser, which Americans connect with on a spiritual patriotic level, but you need to devote more time to developing the identity of your beer. What does Shield Brew mean? What does it stand for?” 

She tilts her head to look down at him, surprised. “Fitz, that’s quite a sensitive observation.” 

“Engineering’s about more than understanding gravity,” he huffs defensively. “It’s about components of a greater whole and operating within systems and accounting for unexpected variables. A lot of that plays into the sale of beer as well. You could be incubating relationships with farmers’ markets and small retailers and restaurants -- real relationships, too, not just business partnerships. Make people feel special.” He clears his throat and finally takes up his second glass of beer. “Make Shield Brew feel personal.” 

“We’ve definitely wasted your talents this week,” she laughs, amazed, then quickly sobers. “Oh, dear, this is going to be more of an undertaking than I thought--” 

“That was my last comment,” he interjects, gazing at her intensely. “You’ve got to stop doubting yourself, Jemma. What you’ve done here, almost single-handedly, is amazing. I don’t know where your determination comes from, why you’re so committed to this place, but if you apply the same care and intelligence to the way you sell your beer as you do to the way you produce it -- those other microbreweries won’t know what hit them.” 

She has to hide her face in her glass to keep him from seeing the emotion welling up through her stomach and chest and into her eyes. She hadn’t lied when she told him this job was isolating -- she doesn’t remember the last time someone spoke to her, of her, so insightfully, as if they actually understood her -- she isn’t sure anyone _ever_ has. 

After a moment, her mind is made up. She sets her glass down and turns on the bar to face him fully. He’s looking at her rather nervously -- still hesitant, despite all she’s done to try to put him at ease. 

“Would you consider staying on longer? As a more general consultant? If I just took your ideas and didn’t involve you in their implementation -- it would feel like cheating, somehow.” He opens his mouth but she rushes on, “I’d understand if you already have something lined up -- your skills must be in high demand--” 

“No,” he says in a strange voice, running a finger along the rim of his glass. “I’ve not got anything on. Actually, people find it a bit challenging to work with me. Not exactly a social butterfly.” 

“I hadn’t noticed,” she lies. He gives her a look and she corrects herself, “I suppose I never minded.” 

“Well, that’s because you’re--” He hesitates, mouth moving wordlessly as if he is testing for the right conclusion to the thought. “I don’t know, you’re different somehow. You’re easy to talk to.” 

She’s been thinking the same thing all week. She doesn’t know how to do this with Fitz, she’s not sure she even should -- would it be ruining an excellent business arrangement and potentially the best friendship she may ever have? For already she has begun thinking of him as that, as a friend. She takes a deep breath to calm the buzzing in her mind as she slides down from the bar onto the stool next to him, their knees knocking. She almost slips off the far side and he puts out a hand automatically to the far side of her thigh, stopping her tumble. 

“To a productive partnership,” she repeats determinedly, raising her glass to him once more. 

He waits until she takes a sip before adding, “To world beer domination.” 

She chokes on her beer as she starts to laugh and she kicks his shin in retribution. He just chuckles and spins away from her on his stool, downing the rest of his glass. 

At least she has the weekend to figure out what to do about this Fitz situation. She’ll need every minute of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone wanna make a manip? I was thinking something using Drinking Buddies caps as a basis (no plot similarities beyond beer but might be good base images!). I tried to make one in Paint but it was pretty terrible :P 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr! I'm grapehyasynth over there as well.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma and Fitz explore some of the consumer aspects of the brewing process in hopes of building a better image and experience for purchasers of Shield Brew.

“Are you sure about this guy, Jemma?” Daisy asked, peeking through the blinds to look out from Jemma’s office into the brewery.

 Jemma looked up sharply. As business manager, Daisy had been working most closely with Fitz (too closely, Jemma thought jealously). “Why? Do you not like him?”

 “No, no, not at all,” Daisy said quickly, turning to Jemma with a slight smile whose origin Jemma didn’t understand. “He’s great. Really, Jemma, he seems like a great guy. But you’re taking a big chance on him.”

 Jemma chewed her lower lip, tapping her pen against her desk in a tic she was almost sure she’d picked up from Fitz during their late-night sessions. “Are you not satisfied with the work he’s been doing?”

 “It’s not that either...” Daisy sighed. “I’m no expert on branding but everything he’s shown me has been awesome. Edgy, unique, funny, really well-drawn.”

 “Then what’s bothering you?” Jemma asked, thoroughly confused.

 “Okay, don’t bite my head off, but a) you hired him basically based off of how much you liked him and I don’t want you to get hurt, and b) I don’t want you to risk your dreams for this place on a guy who could flake. You’ve invested your life in this brewery, and again in this overhaul, and if anything goes wrong--”

 “It won’t,” Jemma insisted automatically. “I can’t say why, Daisy, but Fitz--” She pressed her lips together, glancing in the general direction she knew he would be if she could see him. “I can’t explain it, but I trust him. And yes, I do like him. I think he’s good for the brewery.”

 “And good for you?”

 “That’s preposterous.” Jemma looked down at her paperwork, scrunching her nose as if she could fight off the creeping blush. “You have no grounds on which to make these claims--”

 “Jemma, I have literally never seen someone meet you and not fall instantly in love. Honestly, it’s kind of refreshing to see you interested in return.” Jemma started to protest but Daisy talked over her. “It’s okay, if you’re really not into him, that’s fine, forget I said anything. Just...either way, be careful, okay?”

 “I will be. And Daisy?”

 “Yeah?” Daisy turned in the doorway, one hand on the knob.

 “I’m lucky to have you around.”

 “Yeah, you are,” her friend shot back cheekily. Just before she closed the door, she popped her head back in and said, “And Jemma, he really is a great guy. Great hands. Cute little pasty forearms--”

 Jemma threw her pen at the door, which Daisy only just closed in time.

  
  
  
  


Fitz was passing by Jemma’s office -- not checking to see if she was in, no, not at all -- when he heard a loud thump and her voice called, “Fitz! Hey, Fitz, can you come help me for a moment?”

 Jemma was slumped against a filing cabinet, hair sticking to her forehead with sweat. Fitz laughed at the sight, then covered his mouth in apology. “What’s going on here?”

 “I know it’s not technically in your job description, but could you help me move this to that corner there?” 

“Redecorating?” he asked as he stepped over a lamp and a pile of books in the middle of the floor. 

“Well, yes. The feng shui was feeling off. Besides, overhaul the brewery, overhaul my office.” 

“Are you avoiding something?” He set himself on the opposite side of the cabinet from her, pulling while she pushed. 

“Why would you say that?” 

“This is what I do when I’m putting off work -- find time-consuming, menial tasks that justify avoiding it as long as possible.” 

She stopped pushing and leaned around the cabinet to stare at him like he was mad. “Why would anyone _ever_ do that?” 

“Yeah, guess it’s not your style,” he chuckled, stepping out to help her push the cabinet into its final position. “How’s that?” 

“Perfect,” she beamed. 

“Why do you even have one of these, anyway?” He banged a hand against the cheap metal. “They have all sorts of virtual storage options now. Or are you still living in the 1990s? I could understand why, the fashion had a certain bizarre appeal--” 

“One can never be too careful,” Jemma said calmly, shucking her sweater so that she wore just a tanktop and striding to her bookshelf. “I can imagine all sorts of apocalyptic scenarios in which the servers go down, the grid collapses--” 

“And the tax men will still be doing their audits, calling on you to turn over your papers.” Fitz nodded like it was the most logical thing in the world. “I see your point.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help me with this thing?” 

“Oh, I didn’t realize--” He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. “Should I be working or--” 

Jemma flapped her hands vaguely at him. “This counts, put it on the books. Nothing will get done in the brewery if the feng shui of my office is off.” 

“Got it, boss,” he said seriously, stepping up beside her. “Where do you want me?” 

Jemma blushed as his hand landed on the wood next to hers, and she shifted so she could push it from a different angle. “This’ll do.” 

They spent upwards of an hour getting the room into an arrangement which satisfied Jemma’s seemingly random vision. Fitz made a few tentative suggestions, including aligning her paintings and posters at a level which optimized visual enjoyment while minimizing distractions, but generally he just went where she ordered him. She seemed to trust him to understand exactly what she wanted, and more often than not, he understood better than she herself had. 

They finally collapsed onto the broad windowseat, panting a little and admiring their work. 

“My mum won’t believe me when I tell her I worked out today,” Fitz joked, tugging his sweat-soaked T-shirt away from his skin. “You know what I could go for right now?” 

“I think I have just the thing, Dr. Fitz,” Jemma said brightly, popping up and heading to her mini-fridge. She pulled out two beers -- Shield, of course -- and opened them on the bottle opener she kept on her keyring. She handed one to Fitz and took a long draw from the other. 

“These are about to become limited edition,” Fitz mused, looking at the label. “Vintage.” 

“Oh, we’ll be better off,” Jemma said, waving that thought away as she sat back down next to him, tucking one leg up under herself on the seat. “You were absolutely right, everyone agrees -- it’s time for a revised brand.” 

“You know, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to truly enjoy another kind of beer,” Fitz chuckled, swirling his bottle around. “I’ve drank so much of this stuff I feel it’s in my blood.” 

“Bet your mates in Glasgow won’t be too pleased to hear that,” Jemma noted with a tiny smile. 

Fitz noticed that Jemma was a label-picker, idly working away at the moist paper with her nails while she surveyed the room. 

“Fitz,” she said after a moment of silence, “how do you feel about working Saturdays?” 

“Er, sorry?” He tugged on his earlobe, trying to make the jump with her. “I don’t quite follow.” 

“It’s just -- you had so many wonderful ideas for things we could be doing, things we _should_ be doing, and we’ve really relegated you to just the branding side of it all. I was thinking about going to a few breweries and markets and pubs this weekend, Friday and Saturday, and I was thinking, maybe, if you didn’t mind terribly, you might go with me. I really value your opinion in this arena and could use your second pair of eyes.” 

Fitz wondered why she looked so nervous in asking him. She was the boss, wasn’t she? She could tell him to be there and he’d be there. Though that might be true even if she weren’t his boss. 

“Yeah, no, that sounds alright,” he said, hoping to downplay his excitement. “Field trip of sorts.” 

“I’d pay for everything,” she said quickly. “Or add it to your paycheck--” 

“Oh, I couldn’t let you do that--” 

“It seems only right--” 

They looked at each other, unsure whether this was an impasse of propriety or legality, and then both laughed. 

“We can figure it out day of, I suppose,” Jemma suggested. 

“So what did you have in mind?” 

“I’ll draw up an itinerary, of course--” 

“Of course, wouldn’t expect anything less--” 

She gave him a petulant look but continued, “I’m thinking three brewery tours Friday -- two of the larger, national brands and then one local brewery. Several markets, farmers’ and otherwise, Saturday morning into early afternoon, and then pubs Saturday night. I’ll take care of everything, you only need to show up at work, regular time. Maybe bring a small notebook to take notes covertly, if possible.” 

“Ooh, covertly.” He wiggled in his seat, making her giggle. “I feel like a spy.” 

“We are spying, in a way. I mean, it’s all publicly available, so it’s not exactly corporate espionage, but -- yes. Let’s consider these missions.” 

Fitz finished his beer and set it in the almost-full glass recycling by Jemma’s desk. “Oi, how often do you drink on the job, Dr. Simmons?” he demanded, gesturing to the bin full of bottles. 

“I often have to entertain prospective investors, demonstrate the product,” she said defensively, but she was smiling. “And every now and then nice men help me rearrange my office.” 

“Hmm. I’m starting to think I might want Daisy for my partner on Friday’s mission. You’ll just be plastered the whole time.” 

“I can hold my drink, thank you very much!” 

“Yeah, we’ll see about that, won’t we?” he teased. “See you Friday, Dr. Simmons.”

  
  
  


On Friday morning they travelled to the first brewery together -- it was really on the outskirts of Boston, and they had to ride the subway to the end of the line -- and Jemma tried not to think about how easy it was to talk to Fitz. Effortless, really. They started with beer, the normal territory, but soon Fitz was explaining the original research he’d done at university and Jemma had a million questions and it seemed like no one had ever asked him before. Their mutual excitement was intoxicating. 

They queued up with a crowd of tourists, and Jemma realized they must stick out like sore thumbs. Everyone else had fanny packs and sneakers and sunglasses and here they were in their business casual. Fitz seemed to realize the same thing, as he glanced around at the others and untucked his shirt. Jemma caught his eye and had to hide her giggles in a fake cough attack. 

“Hi, everyone!” a woman called from the front of the group, standing on tiptoe to try to look at them all. “My name is Jiaying, I’ll be your guide for today. Gordon’s the man at the front desk -- if you have any questions and I’m otherwise occupied, he’s always around when you need him. Basic rules: please don’t touch anything unless I say you can, feel free to take pictures, ask lots of questions, and prepare yourselves for the free samples! Everyone ready?” 

“I like her,” Fitz muttered to Jemma as they filtered through a hallway into the main floor of the brewery. “She seems very approachable.” 

“Yes, the public face of the brewery should be carefully considered, for what they convey to visitors” Jemma agreed quietly, bumping into him as she sought to keep the others on the tour from overhearing. “Daisy would probably be great at this.” 

“Can you imagine me, though?” Fitz chuckled. “ ‘Uh, hi, everyone, today we’re going to talk about beer. Beer is good. Drink more beer.’ Nightmare.” 

She tried to slap his arm but he dodged it. They formed a semi-circle around Jiaying, who had started talking about the ingredients that went into the beer. 

“Basic beer is a starch, a brewer’s yeast, and flavoring. Barley’s the most popular, and we use that almost exclusively, but we also like to experiment with things like wheat, oats, and rye. Germany’s got a lot of really popular wheat beers, which we don’t imitate so much as draw inspiration from. A lot of that experimentation happens in this very room, actually. We have several other breweries across the country that do most of our distribution, leaving us free to use this, our original brewery, to create the fun new flavors you guys get to try every year.” 

“See, that’s the downside of having a local operation,” Jemma whispered. Fitz placed a hand on her back so he could stand close enough to hear her, and she noted with alarm a little fluttering in her stomach at the contact. “We have to stay creative to stay relevant, but we simply don’t have the capacity to do this kind of experimentation while maintaining production.” 

Fitz hummed in agreement.

“The yeast is pretty straightforward. We all know yeast from our bread, of course. Fun little guys, those microorganisms. Kinda cool how much they’ve helped civilization,” Jiaying continued. 

“I love her,” Jemma sighed. 

Fitz snorted. “Seduced by biology,” he teased. 

“Without yeast, we wouldn’t be able to make beer. It enables the fermentation which produces alcohol. Everyone here likes alcohol, yeah?” The group laughed. “Your choice of yeast can affect the flavor and style of beer. I won’t go into the details -- lots of Latin names--” Jemma groaned quietly in disappointment. “It’s all on Wikipedia, don’t worry.” 

Jiaying moved to a barrel behind her and took off the lid, scooping up some loose, plant-like material inside. “Last major component is the hops. What we all call hops are actually a flower of the hop vine, and it gives beer its distinctive flavor. Without hops, beer would be much, much sweeter -- totally different drink. Besides the general bitterness they provide, some people also find hops add something citrusy. I’m going to pass this around -- these are hops. Take ‘em, smell ‘em, rub ‘em on your hands -- this is your first free sample. Probably don’t want to eat it though.” 

From here Jiaying started to talk about the actual process of brewing. Jemma felt she did a wonderful job explaining the science in terms that a mixed audience would understand, though of course she herself was intimately acquainted with every step in brewing and had perhaps lost sight of what a layman would understand. 

Her attention started to wander. She rolled the hops between her palms, little bits flaking off onto the cement floor. Her gaze meandered over the crowd, and when she glanced at Fitz, he was was watching her. 

“Pay attention, Agent Simmons, you’re losing track of the mission,” he chided in an undertone. She stuck her tongue out at him. 

The tour was pretty much concluded at that point -- much shorter than Jemma had anticipated, though obviously long enough for her to lose focus. Their tour group was ushered into a long hall, much like the tasting room at Shield Brewery, Jemma was pleased to note, where Jiaying and Gordon handed out pitchers of four different brews for them to sample. 

“Watch it,” Jemma hissed at Fitz as he filled his glass to the brim. “We’ve got two more tours today.” 

“You said you can hold your drink, right? I’m just matching you.” He raised his eyebrows challengingly and drank half the glass in one gulp. 

“Honestly,” she tutted, but she followed his lead. 

While they drank, Jiaying explained the origins of each of the brews and even offered suggestions for pairing them with cheese, chocolate, or full meals. That concluded the tour, though they were allowed to take the glasses they’d been using to sample. 

“It’s quite smart, really,” Jemma said -- not slurring, thank you very much -- as they wandered through the gift shop afterwards. “Get us just slightly buzzed, happy and satisfied enough to spend all our money on their paraphernalia--” 

“No!” Fitz chided, grabbing her wrists as she reached for a sweatshirt. “You do not touch that! That is enemy propaganda.” 

Jemma snort-laughed and covered her nose with one hand. “We’d better get out of here before we cause a scene.” 

They grabbed lunch from a Boston burrito chain and ate on the way to the second brewery. The tour was fairly similar, the information imparted about the same, though this brewery offered snacks, which Fitz noted in his little book as a significant plus. _And_ they allotted twenty minutes in which visitors could sample as many different brews as they wanted. Jemma and Fitz split the room down the middle, hoping to divide and conquer, but Jemma kept running over to Fitz, offering him sips of flavors she particularly liked or asking him to identify ingredients she couldn’t place. 

Their last stop was Hydra Brew, Shield’s biggest competitor in the Boston microbrewery circuit. Jemma hid behind Fitz for most of the tour, convinced -- in her modestly tipsy state -- that she might be recognized. He told her she was being ridiculously but stopped complaining about her clutching the back of his shirt after just a few minutes. 

Hydra, Jemma was pleased to find, had none of the openness or thoroughness of the first two tours. Their guide was brusque and much of the actual brewing happened behind closed doors. They took more notes on what _not_ to do than what would be helpful. 

“Obviously we need to offer samples,” Fitz assessed as they sat on the subway platform afterwards, comparing notes. “Not even a question.” 

“I might personally oversee tour guide selection,” Jemma mused, tapping her lips with her pencil. “It might make sense for you to be part of the process as well, so that there’s some continuity between the branding and the personnel.” 

He looked up at her, surprised. “Um, Jemma, we never really discussed the length of my employment--” 

“Oh.” Startled, she lost her train of thought and tried to read over her notes again but couldn’t seem to grasp the thread she’d been following. “You’re absolutely right. As I understand it, you and Daisy are nearly finished with your part--” 

“Just a few days, yeah.” 

“Shall we reassess then, once you’ve finished?” She didn’t want to have this conversation, not now, anyway, not after the lovely day they had and the full day they had ahead of them. If he wanted to leave, if he was tired of working with her, she could face that next week. 

He nodded, not looking at her, and they were silent until the inbound train rattled in. 

“That’s me,” Jemma said, standing. “You’re headed the other direction, yes?” 

“Yeah.” He stood too, unnecessarily, and looked like he wanted to shake her hand or hug her or something. He settled on planting his hands on his hips and nodding firmly at her. “Good work today, boss.” 

“Likewise.” She pressed her handbag under her arm and stepped into the nearest subway car. “See you tomorrow, Fitz.” 

It had quite a nice ring to it, that. _See you tomorrow, Fitz_. Still, it left something to be desired.

  
  
  


“So how are we doing tonight?” Fitz asked as they meandered through the outdoor market, observing how vendors displayed their wares and interacted with customers. 

“I’ve narrowed it down to nine bars--” 

“How did you select just nine in the entire Boston area?” 

“Honestly, I researched something like ‘nicest bar owners’. I assume we want to be associated with people who are respected in their communities and who treat their employees well.” 

Fitz nodded, rather impressed. “That’s quite smart, actually.” 

“Anyway, so we’ll have approximately 35 minutes at each bar, with 10 minutes allotted for transportation. That’s just an average -- some are within walking distance, some require us to hop on the underground.” 

“So it’s a pub crawl.” 

“ _No_ , Fitz, it’s a carefully organized assessment of potential proprietors for our product in order to determine with whom it would be best to build relationships--” 

“It’s a pub crawl, Simmons.” 

“Fine, it’s a pub crawl,” she muttered, folding up the paper she’d been consulting. 

He grinned and looked away. 

They split a chocolate croissant and left their information with the markets’ organizers, who had a table at the end of the row. Walking back down the line, their hands brushing occasionally between them, Jemma thought how much like dating this was, to be at a farmers’ market on a Saturday morning, to point out spicy pickles and local vegetables and raw honey. 

“I think our best bet is the Public Market,” Jemma said at the end of their tour of the last of five markets. Fitz rubbed at a tightness in his hamstring; they’d done a lot of walking, maintaining Jemma’s insistent pace. “It’s indoors, so it’s not weather-dependent, and it operates every day of the week, all year round. Spaces are in high demand, obviously, and it would require a full-time position rather than having someone spend a few hours at a market a week, but they get loads of traffic and it’s a wonderful atmosphere.” 

“I agree completely,” Fitz nodded. “Plus in outdoor markets you’re flirting with complications with open container laws. At the Public Market you could possibly offer samples.” 

“I’ll ask Daisy to look into the legality of that.” Jemma checked her watch. “We have a few more hours before our Tour de Biere starts, are you up for a late lunch or early dinner?” 

“Er, actually, I hate to cut out, but I promised my mum I’d give her a call this afternoon,” Fitz said apologetically. “D’you mind if I just meet you at the first pub?” 

“No!” Jemma said quickly. “No, that’s -- that’s quite dear of you. Makes me rather embarrassed about how rarely I talk to my parents. Tell your mum I say hi. Or -- maybe don’t do that, she doesn’t know me, it’d be weird--” 

“I’ll do it anyway,” he promised, grinning crookedly. “She’ll think it’s funny.”

  
  
  


Jemma waited nervously at the end of the bar, tapping a coaster against the wood. She hadn’t wanted to start drinking without Fitz but she’d been waiting for twenty minutes, he hadn’t answered her texts, and she felt awkward just sitting there. She sipped daintily at her beer, hoping to preserve it until he showed up. 

God, what if he didn’t show up? What if he stood her up? She could just go home, she supposed -- do this whole pub assessment some other time with Daisy... 

Didn’t have quite the same appeal, somehow. 

“Hey there,” said a husky male voice behind her. 

She grimaced. 

“Buy you a drink?” 

“I’ve got one, thanks very much,” she replied without turning. 

“Hey now,” said the man, stepping up against the bar and putting a hand on her arm, trying to get her to look round. “That ain’t shit, what you’re drinking. Me and my buddies are over there by the pool table -- you come sit with us, we’ll show you a good time, buy you the good stuff--” 

“She’s with me, mate.” 

Jemma looked up sharply. Fitz had appeared out of nowhere and he stood very close to her stool, his chest pressing slightly against her arm. She could tell he was standing on tip-toe, attempting to appear more imposing than he normally was. The slick leather jacket he had on helped, she had to admit. 

“Sorry, man,” the other guy said. Jemma saw him back off, hands raised, in her periphery. “Wouldn’t have said anything if I knew.” 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Jemma said in a low voice as Fitz collapsed onto the stool next to her. 

“I don’t mind,” he replied, raising a hand to catch the bartender’s attention. “He’s an arse for not just listening to you in the first place, of course.” 

Jemma leaned her cheek into her palm and studied him. He rubbed at his scruff with the knuckle of his forefinger as he assessed the beers on tap. 

“How very feminist of you, Fitz.” 

“Feminism’s not that complicated,” he said distractedly. “What are you drinking?” 

He got the same -- “How are we supposed to compete for Most Able to Hold Their Liquor if we’re drinking different APVs? -- and they took their drinks to a table in the opposite corner from the man who’d been hitting on Jemma. 

“I like the atmosphere,” Fitz commented, taking a sip from his beer. “Feels like a place locals go, but not in an exclusive, inaccessible way.” 

Jemma giggled. “Sorry, it’s just -- you’ve got a little foam moustache.” 

“How’s it look? I’ve been thinking of growing one out.” 

“Oh, please, no,” Jemma laughed, leaning forward to wipe it away with her napkin. “I mean, do what you want, obviously, my opinion doesn’t matter, but--” 

“Jemma, I was joking. I’d look like an absolute nutter with a moustache.” He gently grabbed some ends of her hair and pulled them up across his upper lip. “Right, though?” 

Several bars later and the razor-thin semblance of personal space they’d been maintaining up to that point had vanished. Jemma had her legs across Fitz’s lap while he threw peanuts at her, ostensibly so she could catch them in her mouth but mostly so he could watch her miss. 

“You look like a whale or something,” he laughed, smacking the table with one hand. “You keep diving for them like this--” 

He imitated her and she tried to act indignant but she couldn’t stop herself from laughing too. 

“Well, you throw like a T-rex!” She pulled her arms tight against her and made aborted throwing motions. “I don’t stand a chance.” 

“You would if you understood physics.” He popped a peanut into his mouth, eyes very wide. 

“Alright, give me those--” she grumbled, leaning forward and grabbing at his hands to take the nuts away. 

Somehow, despite being five beers in, Jemma still kept them to a tight time schedule and made sure they took notes at each bar. They rated atmosphere, professionalism and amiability of the bartenders or servers, location, range of beers offered, and miscellaneous factors they invented on the spot. (In bar #6 Fitz became convinced that distance between the washrooms and the pinball machine was a major determinant in bargoers’ experiences.) 

At their last bar, Jemma finished gulping her beer first and slammed her glass down on the counter. “You lose, Lee-oh-pold Fitz!” she cried, enunciating every syllable of his dreaded first name. “I have vanquished you!” She poked him in the chest. 

“Thass not how you drink beer,” he said, frowning, brow scrunched. “At a football match, maybe, but we’re assessing the mouthfeel and the, uh, the -- what was the other thing Jiaying mentioned?” 

“Last call in five,” the bartender announced to the room at large, though Fitz and Jemma were the last two there. 

“Let’s dance!” Jemma exclaimed, jumping off her stool. “We’re done with business for the night, let’s dance, Fitz, please, Fitz, pleeeease?” 

“I’m still drinking!” he protested, peering into his glass to make sure this was still true. “Save me,” he whispered to his beer, glancing at Jemma. 

“Go on, then,” she said impatiently, pushing his glass up so it bumped his nose. He frowned at her but downed the rest of it and let her lead him by the hand to a tiny square of open floor between the tables. 

The bartender started putting chairs up and sweeping the floor around them. He also surreptitiously changed the song on the jukebox to a slow ballad, grinning to himself as Jemma gravitated close to Fitz, resting her head on his shoulder. Fitz hesitated, then put his arms around her waist, and they rocked side to side, occasionally crushing peanut shells and pretzels under foot. It could hardly be called dancing, but Jemma seemed satisfied. 

She started falling asleep on him, though. At first Fitz hoisted her up gently so she could stand on his feet while they swayed, but she became too much to hold up, so he reluctantly nudged her awake. 

Nervous about her getting home alone, he paid for a taxi and got out with her. She paused on her doorstep, turning back to catch his collar. 

“This was a very productive workday,” she slurred, squinting to focus on his face. “I think we gathered a lot of --” She hiccuped. “A lot of valuable data.” 

“Right you are, Dr. Simmons,” he chuckled. 

“And I’m not as think as you drunk I am,” she continued, jabbing his chest with her finger again. He laid a hand over the spot, pretending to be deeply wounded. “I can still hold my alcohol better than you.” 

“Whatever you say, boss.” 

Jemma leaned back against the door to her apartment building, regarding him. “Do you want to come up? Just ... sober up before you go home? I’ve got water, tea... Beer? That wouldn’t help much though, would it...” 

Fitz backed down a step, pushing his hands into his pockets. _He’s moving in the wrong direction_ , Jemma thought unhappily. “Thanks, Jemma, but I should go. Text me when you’re in your flat, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” she sighed, suddenly feeling very deflated. If this wasn’t a clear answer to her constant wonderings about Fitz, she didn’t know what was. “See you Monday, Fitz.” 

She collapsed on her bed the moment she reached it and didn’t move until mid-afternoon on Sunday, when she stretched just far enough to grab her notebook and laptop and compile her reflections and begin drawing up proposals for Shield Brew. Fitz texted her a picture a few moments later of himself lying in bed with sunglasses on and a gallon jug of water. She smiled and rested her chin in her hand, gazing at the picture, hoping that her nausea was from the previous night’s drinking rather than her now very obvious, very confusing feelings for Fitz.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first beer tour based generally on the one I did of Sam Adams; the second one based on things I've heard about Harpoon! Hydra Brew not inspired by any really brewery ;) 
> 
> Shoutout to anyone who knows what Boston burrito chain I mean! 
> 
> Also I was a big fan of Jiaying before she, well, ended up being evil, so I thought it'd be fun to incorporate her here! 
> 
> I headcanon that the bartender who turned the slowdance music on happened to be named Lance...
> 
> Find me on Tumblr -- I'm grapehyasynth there as well.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz's time with Shield Brewery comes to an end.

“So, what’d you think?” Daisy demanded, rounding on Jemma and Fitz the instant the last visitor had exited. “I thought I might have gone on a bit too long about our sourcing practices but that one guy  _ did  _ have a lot of questions...”

Jemma looked at Fitz, but he gestured that the final assessment of their inaugural brewery tour was hers to make.

She flipped through her notes, chewing her lip as if considering how best to deliver some harsh news. But she was really just winding Daisy up, so she finally closed her notebook with a grin. “It was perfect. Honestly, I loved every minute of it.”

“Oh, thank god,” Daisy groaned, leaning heavily against the wall while Fitz laughed. “I thought you were going to fire me.”

“You two have done such an incredible job with the rebranding. I can’t thank you enough,” Jemma insisted, squeezing Daisy’s hand. She assumed it would be a little too much to do the same with Fitz’s.

“Oh, come on, give yourself some credit, girl! The field research you two did was  _ so  _ helpful.” Daisy had heard all about Jemma’s eventful and drunken weekend with Fitz and she brought it up at every opportunity.

“Any noticeable effects as of yet?” Fitz asked.

“Well, we have to wait until the end of the quarter, at the earliest, to see if the changes have impacted sales, but...” Daisy was practically bouncing on her toes. “There are 15 local restaurants or pubs interested in partnering with us and having us on tap, and a major distributor for the entire eastern seaboard is coming up next Tuesday to check us out.”

“Whaaat?” Fitz gasped dramatically at the same time that Jemma exclaimed, “Go Team Shield!” They high-fived without even needing to look at each other.

“Nerds,” Daisy muttered affectionately, giving Jemma a significant look. “Listen, I gotta go make some tweaks before the afternoon tour, but I’ll catch you weirdos later.”

“Can you believe it?” Jemma gushed as Fitz followed her back to her office. “I know you’ve only been with us for a bit over a month but the changes already feel astronomical.” She threw herself into her desk chair and spun it a few times gleefully.

“You deserve it,” Fitz chuckled, watching her with his arms crossed. “You’ve done everything right, you just needed a little push out into the public eye.”

“Don’t be so humble,” Jemma scoffed, catching her desk to stop her rotations. “Daisy and I work hard but you almost single-handedly saved my business. You’re a genius and a hero and I’m forever indebted to you.”

“Ah--” Fitz blushed and scratched behind his ear. “That’s not -- you don’t--”

“And I think it only makes sense,” she continued over his protestations, before the nervous twisting in her stomach could make her chicken out, “that I offer you a full-time position as brand and PR consultant. It would be a joint arrangement with Daisy, as she’ll be taking on more responsibility on the PR side and won’t be able to spend as much time dealing with the business aspects--”

“Jemma, I don’t think--”

“Though of course I know your first love is engineering, and you’d be allowed to tinker anytime -- Mike’s already given the go-ahead to have you pop in and make upgrades as they become available--”

“Jemma, I can’t,” Fitz interrupted her loudly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t keep working for you. For Shield.”

“Oh.” Jemma had expected him to negotiate the salary or title or something, but certainly not to reject the offer outright. She wanted to ask if he’d been unhappy with the workload or the hours or  _ his boss  _ but this wasn’t the time. “Have you got something else lined up, then?”

“I’m looking around.”

She noticed for the first time that he looked rather miserable and seemed unable to meet her eyes. Had she been projecting her own excitement onto him this whole time? The markets, the pubs, the slow dancing -- had he only been barely  _ tolerating  _ all of that, barely tolerating  _ her _ ?

“Then today’s your last day?”

“Seems so.”

She cleared her throat and rearranged the paper clips on her desk. “Normally, we do an exit interview with Bobbi, my personnel manager, but that can be done over the phone or...” It suddenly felt very urgent to get him out of her office so she could be properly embarrassed and disappointed in peace.

“Yeah, whatever you like.”

“You’ll still come to the summer solstice party, though?” It would look strange if she didn’t invite him. “Tomorrow at 6 at my apartment? I’m having everyone over for some barbecue--”

“Don’t think I’ll be able to,” Fitz said, his nose crinkling apologetically. “I’ve got dinner with Mack.”

“Oh!” Jemma tried to sound less crestfallen than she felt. “Are you and Mack---”

“Together? No. I mean, Mack’s brilliant, one of my best friends...”

“Very muscley and well-formed,” Jemma added helpfully.

“Do you want me to set you two up?” Fitz offered with a crooked smile.

“Me and Mack?” She laughed nervously. “No, I -- No. Thank you.”

A strained silence followed. Jemma kicked herself for commenting on Mack’s physique -- now Fitz would think she was interested in men of that build rather than...well, whatever Fitz qualified as. Not that there was a shred of hope left in that department anyway.

“Well, uh, thank you for your service,” Jemma chirped at last, forcing a smile and extending her hand. “You’ve been a real pleasure -- I mean,  _ it’s _ been a real pleasure, your working here--”

“Likewise,” Fitz cut her off firmly before she could do further damage and shook her hand. They released each other quickly and Jemma hid her hand under her desk so he wouldn’t see how she had to ball it into a fist to keep it from trembling.

“Bye, then,” Fitz said faintly.

Jemma gave him a small smile and stifled a groan as he turned away.  _ Pitiful, miserable, an affront to your gender _ \--

“I could come after,” Fitz said abruptly, stopping just short of the door to look back. “Dinner with Mack won’t take that long, so I could stop by the party after, if that’s -- if you think anyone will--”

“Yes!” Jemma blurted out a tad too eagerly. “Yes. Do that. I’m sure we’ll still be there.”

“Right.” Fitz tapped the doorknob with his index finger, gave her another smile that unfairly sent butterflies fluttering up from her stomach to her lungs, and left.   
  
  


 

Daisy showed up early to help Jemma set up. They hauled the communal grill into the apartment building’s small backyard and set out lawn chairs, decked the picnic tables in checkered tablecloths, and hung strands of lights.

Jemma had gone a bit overboard at the grocery store and had burgers and sausages of the meat and vegetarian varieties; ketchup, mayo, mustard, relish, and a few other condiments; whole wheat, potato, and multigrain buns; potato salad, egg salad, and tuna salad; a large vegetable platter; and watermelon and strawberries for dessert. Daisy had also brought a cornhole set that her boyfriend had saved from his college days.

They  had just started grilling when Bobbi showed up with her boyfriend, an English bloke Jemma liked immediately but to whom she nonetheless gave the fiercely-protective-best-friend routine. Once he’d passed that test, he fiddled with her speakers and got some indie rock playing in the background. He grabbed Bobbi’s hand and danced her across the grass goofily.

It was truly a lovely evening, with the swell of a hot day just tapering off. Mike, the foreman, brought his son Ace and Shield’s accountant Joey showed up with his fiancé. Even when the other two dozen Shield employees had arrived, some bringing plus-ones, there was clearly nowhere near a food shortage, for which Daisy continued to tease Jemma mercilessly.

Despite it all, despite every wonderful detail and feeling her heart swell at this little family she’d created and for whom her business helped provide, Jemma felt distracted and restless the entire party. She burned a few rounds of burgers before Bobbi kicked her off grill-duty. She just couldn’t stop thinking about Fitz and when he might show up and how this might be the last time she would see him. Maybe it was for the best, she thought ruefully as she watched Daisy and Ace completely obliterate their Mike at cornhole, that he wouldn’t be working for her any longer: she’d probably never have gotten anything done.

Everyone trickled out around sunset, graciously turning down the copious leftovers which Jemma tried to unload on her guests.

“Guess Dr. Hottie’s a no-show,” Daisy said sympathetically, messily folding a tablecloth.

“Don’t call him that,” Jemma chided, blushing. “And I’m sure he had a very good reason--”

“Hello?” a voice called nervously around the corner of the building.

“And that’s my cue!” Daisy squeaked, throwing the tablecloth at Jemma’s head and grabbing her purse.

“You can’t leave me!” Jemma hissed.

“Uh, unless you’re trying to solicit me for a three-way, I’m definitely leaving,” Daisy snorted.

“That’s not what-- Hello, Fitz!”

Daisy clapped Fitz on the shoulder and practically skipped out of sight. Jemma was going to have some strong words for her on Monday.

“Guess I missed everyone?” Fitz asked ruefully, looking around at the remnants of the party. “Sorry I’m late. Mack’s, er, having some romantic troubles and I felt I had to stay.”

“Oh, that was good of you,” Jemma said, clutching the tablecloth to her chest. “To stay. You’re a good friend. I assume. To Mack.”

“How was the party?” Fitz interrupted her broken babble with a slight smile that told her he hadn’t missed her awkwardness.

“Lovely,” she answered truthfully. “Not everyone gets to interact at the brewery, you know, segmented as the jobs can be, so it’s wonderful to have an opportunity for everyone to mix. It’s a shame you didn’t get to meet everyone.”

  
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that too.” Fitz pushed his hands into his pockets and looked around. “Well, I’ll get out of your hair then, I’m sure you have things to do--”

“No, Fitz, stay,” Jemma cut him off firmly. She decided the instant that whatever her own feelings might be, and however wretchedly unrequited they might be, she could still be a good friend and hostess for the remaining moments of their acquaintance. She’d hate to leave herself, or Fitz, with the impression that her pettiness trumped common courtesy.

“If you’re sure?”

“I am. I’m afraid I can’t offer you a beer, as the others cleaned me right out, but there’s still some lemonade, if you’d like.”

“That sounds delicious, thanks.”

She fixed them each a glass of lemonade with some ice and fresh mint leaves and handed Fitz’s to him carefully, so as to avoid unnecessary brushes of fingers. He looked at the mint and gave her an impressed look.

“Good Housekeeping?”

“English mother,” she corrected him. They both laughed.

“Do you want to sit?” Fitz asked, and Jemma realized they were standing awkwardly close in the middle of the lawn. She nodded her head fervently and led him over to a couple of deck chairs, the sort usually set out by a pool. Jemma pulled her knees up to her chest while Fitz sprawled out the full length.

They sipped their drinks in silence for a moment, listening to the crickets chirping nearby.

“This is something I always miss, when I go home,” Fitz said quietly, as if hesitant to break the stillness.

“Lemonade?”

“No, this -- this -- I don’t know how to describe it. The very particular way summer feels here. Even just the smells, you know? I was walking down the street to get to your apartment and passed some honeysuckle and it just absolutely fills the air. There’s a different fullness to summer here.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” she smiled at him. Blast him for being such a poet. “You can feel life just vibrating in the air.”

“Yeah.” He held her gaze, smiling back lazily.

Jemma suddenly found it very hard to breathe and had to look away.

“You never did tell me how you ended up in the microbrewery business,” Fitz noted as if just remembering it. He shifted so he could rest both elbows on the arm of his chair and watch her.

“Didn’t I? I would’ve thought that might’ve come up at some point during our systematic assessment of drink establishments--”

“Our pub crawl, you mean?” Fitz teased.

“Yes, if you  _ must  _ call it that.” She rolled her eyes dramatically.

“Not that you’d remember even if you had told me.”

“Mm. That’s true.” She scrunched her nose up at the memory. “Sorry I was such a burden that night. You must’ve been so annoyed the way I dragged you everywhere--”

“I wasn’t annoyed,” Fitz reassured her quickly. “Not for a second.”

Jemma forced a grateful smile, wishing again he weren’t so wonderful and considerate and attentive, wishing he didn’t make her feel like he saw something in her that no one else had seen.

“So the story?”

“The story. The short version is, my dad had an adopted sister, my Aunt Melinda, who had this incredible, beautiful marriage to my Uncle Andrew. They both had really demanding jobs and all they wanted was to start a microbrewery and be able to have a family. They’d actually bought the property for what is now Shield Brewery and were getting ready to start hiring.

“Then Uncle Andrew, who was a firefighter, died helping a girl get out of a burning building, and it absolutely devastated Aunt Melinda. It struck us all rather hard, as he’d been an absolute angel of a man, but she was never the same afterwards. She eventually remarried, and her new husband is wonderful and I think he gives her a new perspective on life, but she could never come back to Boston and she gave up on the idea of a brewery altogether. She signed the lease over to me, though, and surprised me with it when I graduated from uni. It wasn’t what I’d planned, but Aunt Melinda raised me more than my actual parents did, so I feel like I owe everything to her. And somewhere along the line, I really started loving this for myself, not for her.”

Jemma stopped to take a breath. She hadn’t told anyone this story since she’d hired Daisy two years ago, and it all spilled out without her meaning to let it. Conversations had a way of happening like that with Fitz.

Fitz was watching her with a strange expression on his face, eyes slightly wide and his lower lip sucked into his teeth.

“Sorry,” she muttered, letting her hair block her from him. “That was probably more than you wanted.”

“No, Jemma, I--”

But a sudden deluge of rain from above cut him off. So caught up had they both been in Jemma’s story that they’d not noticed the first gentle raindrops, and now the clouds dumped veritable buckets on them.

“Oh no!” Jemma cried, abandoning her lemonade and dashing to grab the buns and burgers which she’d not managed to get inside.

“Let me help!” Fitz shouted, his hair already plastered flat against his head. He slid across the wet grass and nearly collided with her.

“Take these into the laundry room!” Jemma yelled into his ear, holding his shoulder with one hand and leaning towards his ear so he could hear her. “It’s on the ground floor, just there at the corner -- we can put everything there for now!”

He scrambled away, arms full of food and decorations. Jemma carefully unplugged the lights but decided to leave them hanging, instead darting around with a triage mentality, prioritizing what needed to go inside and what could get wet and not be a problem.

She met Fitz as he came dashing back out.

“What should I take?” he shouted.

“Leave it!” She grabbed his arm and hauled him behind her into the laundry room. “This’ll do!”

Once inside, she threw everything on top of the dryers and looked down at herself, infinitely glad she hadn’t worn her white sundress as she was now soaked through. She laughed and shook herself slightly, like a dog, before turning to the cabinets on the far side of the room, looking for something to dry herself with.

“That came up fast,” Fitz commented, sliding the glass door almost all the way shut so they could still just hear the drum of the rain on the patio outside. “Expect it’ll be thundering soon, the way this is g-- oof!”

He’d turned too quickly and smacked his head straight into the corner of the cabinet door Jemma had open.

“Bloody hell,” he moaned, leaning over with a hand pressed over his eye.

“Oh, no, Fitz!” Jemma gasped, grabbing his wrist with both hands. “I’m so sorry -- let me see, is it bad?”

He straightened, wincing as he let her remove his hand.

“Oh dear,” Jemma clucked, gingerly pressing a finger to a cut on the cheekbone just by the corner of his eye. “You’ve got a little gash, and it’ll bruise, unfortunately.”

“Is this how you send off all your employees?” Fitz grumbled, putting his hand back over the sore spot.

“Come over here into the light, I’ll get you cleaned up.”

Jemma led him by the elbow to a sink set into the countertop. She took out a roll of papertowels from the cabinet -- what she’d originally been hunting for anyway -- and wet one from the tap. She stretched up to wipe at the cut but with even their slight height difference the angle was awkward.

“Hang on--” She handed him the wet towel and hoisted herself up onto the countertop. Once she’d gotten a comfortable seat, she tugged Fitz over by his sleeve and took the towel back. “That’s better. This shouldn’t sting as it’s just water, but tell me if I push too hard, okay?”

Jemma began delicately wiping the slight trickle of blood away from the cut, focusing on Fitz’s response to her ministrations rather than how she could feel his breath on her cheek or that his eyelashes kept brushing her thumb as he looked up at her and then away.

She tilted his head towards her slightly with two fingers on his chin, and he shifted slightly towards her, apparently in an effort to help. His knee hit one of the handles on the cabinets below the sink and he put out a hand to steady himself.

His hand landed on her thigh.  _ Oh god _ . She willed herself to keep cleaning the cut as if nothing had happened. He wasn’t removing his hand and  _ I will surely die here _ .  _ Why is he doing this to me? Is he that oblivious?   _   


“That should do it,” she said briskly, folding up the used towel and dropping it onto the counter. “I could put a bandage on it but you’d look a bit foolish.”

“Would rather fit with my aesthetic, wouldn’t it?” he joked. “Thanks, Jemma, it feels better already.”

“It’ll feel worse tomorrow, mind you.”

“Some bedside manner you have.” He finally seemed to notice his hand resting high on her leg and moved it quickly so that it was on the counter, his pinky just brushing her thigh.

Jemma leaned forward, her own hands on the edge of the counter, one on either side of her legs. This meant putting one hand on the outside of Fitz’s, so their arms crossed and almost touched. She could feel his radiating body heat, a slight humidity about them as their clothes started to dry.   


“I’ll miss you at the Brewery,” Jemma said bracingly. “It’s been really lovely having someone to talk to.”

“Ah, you’ve got Daisy.”

“That’s true.” She chewed the inside of her lip. If he wanted to willfully misunderstand her, that was his prerogative.

“I’ll miss it too,” Fitz said quietly.

Jemma stared at him. “Why don’t you stay, then?”

“I can’t.” He almost sounded like he was pleading, as if there was something obvious she was missing. “I would but I -- I can’t.”

“Why, Fitz? Has it been that awful? Have I been driving you that mad with all my expectations and bizarre ideas and alphabetical filing systems?” She was working herself into a tizzy despite all her promises to herself to remain calm.

“No!” he balked, stepping back from the counter, away from her. “It’s not that at all. It’s been the best month and a half of my life.”

“Then why?” she whispered.

“Because--” He placed his hands on his hips and took a deep breath, looking down at the floor. “Because I thought it would be a bit awkward to ask you to dinner while you were still my boss.”

Jemma gaped at him. “What?”

He slumped forward again, his forearms on the counter. “I understand that you’re not likely to say yes regardless, even if I’m not working for you any longer, but-- I couldn’t take that job when the main reason I’d be taking it... is you.”

“Fitz,” Jemma murmured. He mumbled something apologetic in response, so she tried again. “ _ Fitz _ .”

A muscle in his jaw twitched as he hesitated, but finally he turned his head to look at her, and that put him in exactly the right place. Jemma leaned towards him, their shoulders bumping a second before their lips met.

It was beautifully ironic, Jemma thought as she tasted the tang of lemonade on Fitz’s tongue, that after all the time they’d spent together under the influence, they didn’t need a drop of alcohol to make this happen. Though really,  _ this _ , the way his hand slid into her damp hair as he stepped around to stand between her legs, the way his lips slotted against hers, the way the back of his neck broke into goosebumps when she wrapped her arms around him and trailed her fingers over the small hairs there -- this was easily the most intoxicating thing she’d ever experienced.

Fitz cradled her face with both hands and pressed three achingly soft kisses to the corner of her mouth before he pulled back, eyes still closed. Jemma let her head drop back against the cabinet, heart pitter-pattering as she finally embraced the feelings she’d spent weeks attempting to quash.

“So,” she whispered.    


“That happened,” he replied, equally breathless.

“It’s about time,” she chuckled.

He finally opened his eyes and her chest heaved slightly against his as she saw their impossible blueness.

“You felt it too, this past month? While we were working?” he clarified nervously.

“The whole time,” she laughed, sliding her hands down to his hips to pull him closer. “We’re idiots.”

“Well,  _ I  _ was trying to maintain our professional working relationship,” he protested teasingly. “I can’t imagine the questions that would have been raised if you started sleeping with one of your employees...”

“Oh, is there to be sex involved in this equation?”

Fitz colored immediately. “I didn’t mean -- I just --” He let out a huff as Jemma snorted at his reaction. “I hope so?”

“Honestly, I’d be surprised if there wasn’t a pool going on for when we’d get together,” Jemma mused, using this moment of being so close to him to examine lines and shadows on his face she’d never seen before.

“Organized by Daisy, no doubt,” Fitz agreed.

“I’m guessing this is a hard no on the job offer, then?” Jemma slipped her index fingers into his belt loops.

“I’m afraid so,” Fitz sighed. “The job market’s absolutely lousy right now but Mack said he’d help... I may have lied about Mack having romantic troubles,” he added, eyeing her guiltily. “It was me. I was the one with the troubles, and he was advising me rather than vice-versa.”

“Please tell Mack I appreciate whatever advice he gave you,” Jemma said approvingly, leaning forward to kiss his nose. He closed his eyes as she did so.

“I’m not against consulting unofficially for Shield, mind,” Fitz mused. “Just -- I think it risks getting too messy, especially in a business so small. And I don’t want you risking everything you’ve worked so hard to build for me. I think anything short of us being married would--”

“You kiss a boy  _ one time _ and suddenly he’s talking about sex and marriage!” Jemma exclaimed.

Fitz groaned and buried his head into her shoulder. “You know I’m not good with the words and things,” he mumbled.

Jemma, who found his  _ words and things  _ to be quite convincing, wanted to disagree, but instead she nudged his head back up and murmured, “Then show me.”

He was happy to oblige. 

  
  
  
  


(There  _ was  _ an office pool. Daisy had bet they’d need at least another month to get their heads out of their behinds, but in this case she was quite happy to lose.)   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it, folks!! I had a specific arc for this so keeping it short, but if anyone has specific requests for prologues/epilogues/missing scenes, I'd be -- like Fitz -- quite happy to oblige. 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr! I'm grapehyasynth there as well.


End file.
